


The Warfare between the Sheep and the Flowers

by quixotesque



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:50:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1712225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Pressure point</i>, he thinks. <i>Weakness and sentiment</i>. Then: <i>little brother</i>. And finally, like the thud of a heartbeat: <i>Sherlock</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warfare between the Sheep and the Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Война барашков и цветов](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600303) by [faikit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikit/pseuds/faikit)



> "The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums? And if I know-- I, myself-- one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing-- Oh! You think that is not important!" 
> 
> \- _The Little Prince_

Mycroft knows many things.

He knows the equations that his mother loves and the plants that his father loves. He knows that it had rained all day when Sherlock was told Redbeard had gone elsewhere to live and that Sherlock's voice was a strange, faraway smudge of sound on the telephone when he called Mycroft to see if it was true. He knows the first seeds of resentment had sprouted after Sherlock had learnt the truth. 

He knows interrogations. When a man will break and into how many pieces, when a man won't and how to make him shatter anyway. He knows secrets, big state secrets and little white lie secrets, a whole garden of secrets breathing in one pocket of his mind. He knows subterfuge, manipulation, the wet clay malleability of language and behaviour. The lengths to which tailored suits, the casual tap of an umbrella, and a serene shark's smile can take him.

He knows from the beginning that the world is a dangerous place and Sherlock is an endangered species, one of only two in existence, tied to Mycroft by blood, by the span of several years and the weight of something profound, something always and never acknowledged, living down in Mycroft's chest like an unknown deep sea creature. The world will get in Sherlock's way and Sherlock will want to get in its way even _more_ , because he is dangerous, too; he'll bulldoze his way through life unrelentingly, an unstoppable force crushing an immovable object.

Mycroft knows how far he must climb, who he must become (the most dangerous of them all), so that his pale-eyed whirlwind of a brother can tear down streets and uncover their secrets in relative safety, building a garden of his own. He knows that caring is not an advantage, that he's been living his life at a disadvantage ever since he was seven years old. It is a disconcerting and tedious and wholly unsurprising fact to be aware of, but there it is.

 _Pressure point_ , he thinks. _Weakness and sentiment_. Then: _little brother_. And finally, like the thud of a heartbeat: _Sherlock_.

" _What_ , Mycroft?" The violin bow, still lodged in Sherlock's grip, is half-flung in Mycroft's direction like a silent dagger, like it's meant to pin Mycroft to the doorway so Sherlock can keep his brother out of his inner sanctum and still have something to scrutinise when the urge strikes him. "Bored of playing around with your minions, are you? They're not jumping fast enough on their strings, so the puppet-master's come to bother me instead?"

"Naturally," Mycroft murmurs. He does not look at Sherlock's chest, where a scar is unfurled beneath the shirt, a red anomaly standing out in a wide swath of white like a brilliant burst of blood in snow. "They do try hard, but my minions are woefully inadequate in entertaining me as you do. Your melodrama is good for that at least."

Sherlock glares. He pivots and returns to the window he frequently haunts, gown fluttering around him dramatically as if he is an aggrieved bird spreading his wings indignantly for retreat.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. He says, "my point proved precisely," emphasising and savouring the alliteration because it irritates his brother.

Sherlock replies with a jarring atonal melody.

Mycroft rolls his eyes and takes a seat in John's chair, where John's cup of tea sits neglected on the arm. He twists his umbrella around once and listens. Sherlock plays as awfully as he can – and it really is quite impressive how awful that is, Mycroft would inform him but he hates to _encourage_ his brother – until he decides Mycroft has been punished enough. The melody smoothes out, then, suddenly a thread so delicately spun that it seems improbable for it to have been born under Sherlock's habitually impatient fingers.

"You know what I say about improbable things," Sherlock says, smug. His reflection in the window is smirking.

"I do, because, funnily enough, it's what _I_ say about improbable things, Sherlock. Am I supposed to be honoured that you're still stealing my words and claiming them as yours? It's sweet, I suppose, in the same way cats bringing in dead mice is sweet."

Sherlock's hand changes pace, from _adagio_ to _vivace_. His voice mirrors the jump, quickening like a pulse beginning to race. "If you wanted a dead mouse, why didn't you say something sooner? I'll post you one next time your birthday rolls around and make sure it arrives right around breakfast, so you don't have to eat alone. Wouldn't that be nice? You can make a friend."

"Splendid," Mycroft says. "Mummy will be so proud at such a show of generosity on your part and I'll name the creature after you in eternal gratitude." He wasn't lying when he said no one entertains him as his brother does.

"You will do no such thing."

"I will, if I ever find myself with a rodent."

Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise, but not an admission of defeat. Mycroft smiles, small, prepared for the next attack. The violin continues to croon, its well-loved strings shivering with each press of bow and fingers.

Soon, it will be put down and Sherlock will slink over to the chair opposite, meditative. It will be as it had been that day more than two years ago: they will talk of Moriarty, pool together their thoughts, and from that vast ocean of ideas, plans will be drawn, discarded, drawn again. This time, they will be utterly thorough. They will take a knife to the world and slice the spectre of Moriarty clean from the earth.  

For the time being, Mycroft listens to his brother play and throw barbs at him in yet another iteration of their favourite childhood game. He does not say, _the things I have done for you._ He does not say,  _the things I will do for you_. He knows Sherlock already knows.

 


End file.
